Page 86 of Hate You Later
“What if it doesn’t work out? What if they hate each other?” I ask.
“And what if they don’t?” he whispers, before dipping his head to my neck.
Teasingly, he traces the curve of my collarbone with his lips. I moan. The touch of his tongue against my throat is pure fire. I’m melting into him, unable to separate myself from the sensation of our bare arms touching. I reach out to lift his shirt, and suddenly, he’s carrying me in his strong arms and walking.
“Cookie!” I gasp.
“I got you,” he says, and I glance down to see Cookie’s leash is wrapped around his wrist. She is following obediently, tongue out, with the biggest, shit-eating dog grin I’ve ever seen in my entire life.
Hudson kicks open the door to the loft.
“Where’s the cat?” I ask.
“He’s in my bedroom, don’t worry,” Hudson says. He’s addressing Cookie but he’s speaking to me. “We can go as fast or as slow as you like, Cookie. We don’t even have to do anything today, if you don’t want.”
I want. I want so many things. Including meeting the damned cat. But not just yet. I grab his shirt and yank. He helps me out by lifting it up and over his head, leaving me to delight in and explore his beautiful, broad chest.
My fingers trace the lines of his lean-cut muscles. I pause on a small series of nautical tattoos along his ribcage and look up at him to ask.
“I’m kind of into sailing,” he says.
“And this one?” I trace my fingers over the ax.
“About that …”
“I don’t even want to know.” I silence him with a finger to his lips. “Because why on earth would you have ever let me win?”
He sucks the tip of my finger, smiling playfully. “You’re a fearsome opponent.”
“You have any runes tattooed anywhere that I should know about?” I ask.
“Runes?”
“Like Ragnar. I’m not entirely convinced you’re not a Viking.” I breathe out against him.
“Because you think I’m raiding and plundering your village?” he asks. He lifts me onto the kitchen counter and slowly unbuttons my shirt, holding my gaze the entire time. One button. Two buttons. Four. Then he peers down at my lacy bra and lowers his head to lick my breastbone. I prickle with wet, electric wanting as his chin stubble grazes against my sensitive skin.
“Come on, baby boy, Mommy’s going to get you something yummy to eat.” A high-pitched voice reverberates above us.
What the heck? I hear the sound of a door opening upstairs and clutch at my shirt. Hudson freezes, eyes wide and filled with thunder.
High heels clatter across the hardwood floor above, then clang against a metal staircase, coming down, down, down toward us in no particular hurry.
But I am. I slide down from the counter and frantically button my shirt. Hudson scrambles around on the floor for his tee and swiftly pulls it over his head. I should probably tell him it’s inside out. No. No, I shouldn’t. He’s staring at my buttons, which are buttoned completely wrong.
Shit.
“Huds! You’re home! Look at that, Ollypops! Daddy came home!” says the tall, blonde woman. The same gorgeous woman I saw in the Google search I did on Hudson.
“Ash, what the hell are you doing here?” Hudson stares at her. “And how did you get in?”
“The foreman gave me a spare key.” She shrugs. “I was super tired. Major jet lag. I told him I needed to get in your bed ASAP.”
“You should have called,” Hudson says.
“I know, but I wanted to surprise you. I finished the London job early, and the team sent me here to handle the staging of the lofts. It’s just perfect, isn’t it, babe? Now Ollie doesn’t have to miss his mommy for another minute, does he? Do you, Olly.” She glances around for Oliver, who is nowhere to be found.
Suddenly, I hear whining coming from the living room behind us. Hudson and I spin around and take in the scene that’s playing out before our very eyes.
